


i'm growing up but nothing's changing

by void_fish



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-05 11:38:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17324321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/void_fish/pseuds/void_fish
Summary: 'Aw, hell,' Fligs says, sighing. 'Again, Dub?''Shut up,' Dubi says, and his voice is different too, not quite as deep. 'It’s not like I do it on purpose.''I’m gonna go tell Torts that you’re a teenager again,' Nick says, long suffering, and hauls himself off the bench.





	i'm growing up but nothing's changing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aperfect20 (blamefincham)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blamefincham/gifts).



> i might as well have signed this fic with my name, you all know who it is.
> 
> doing my bit to make the dubi/pld tag more populated, one ridiculous magic fic at a time.
> 
> HUGE thanks to the two E's in my life, and also R, for being cheerleaders/betas/tolerating just how many feelings i have about brandon dubinsky
> 
> ENJOY, LOVELY RECIPIENT

Luc’s first indication that something was wrong should really have been when he looked up and Dubi was already in the room, skulking around the logo with a hood up and an oversized hoodie on. In his year and change with the club, he has never known Dubi to enter the room quietly or sedately. 

'Dub!' Fligs says from next to Luc. 'What, are you ill or something?'

Dubi’s hood shakes a no, and he hunches his shoulders as he drops into his seat. Luc keeps lacing his skate, but honestly? He’s kind of freaked out by a Dubi that doesn’t even _attempt_ a headlock. He sneaks a look at him and promptly lets the lace he’s pulling slip through his suddenly slack fingers, somehow managing to punch himself in the face. 

'Uh,' he says, hoping no one saw. 'Dubi…?'

Dubi hunches more, turns away from Luc a little, but it’s too late. 

'You look—' Luc starts, and stops. Because what Dubi looks like is a member of some boyband, with huge brown eyes and shiny dark hair flopping into his eyes, clean shaven and ten years younger. What the fuck?

'Shh,' he says, frantic, tugs his hood further over his eyes, but it’s too late.

Luc turns to Fligs to see if he sees it too. Maybe Luc is hallucinating. Maybe this is just what Dubi looks like without a beard. If it is, Luc is in some serious trouble, because as handsome as Dubi is with the beard, without it? Luc wants to leave a large amount of hugely incriminating hickies all over the slightly soft line of his jaw. It’s a problem. 

'Aw, hell,' Fligs says, sighing. 'Again, Dub?'

'Shut up,' Dubi says, and his voice is different too, not quite as deep. 'It’s not like I do it on purpose.'

'I’m gonna go tell Torts that you’re a teenager again,' Nick says, long suffering, and hauls himself off the bench. 

'I’m _twenty,_ ' Dubi says, well. Shouts, really, and all the attention he’d clearly been trying to avoid before is zeroed straight in on him.

'I’m not a teenager,' he grumbles. 'I didn’t have my tattoo when I was a teenager.'

Luc blinks. Dubi has a _tattoo_? He’s seen Dubi naked dozens of times now, and he’s never seen any ink. He turns to look at him, but he’s retreated back into his hoodie, glaring daggers at his shoes.

No one seems to be stupid enough to approach him. Luc keeps his mouth shut. 

-

Here’s the thing about Luc. 

He has a massive, debilitating, frankly embarrassing crush on one Brandon Grae Dubinsky, and he doesn’t care if Dubi knows it. 

Here’s the thing about Dubi.

He’s twelve years older than Luc, and reminds him of this every time Luc gets a little tipsy, a little handsy, a little- needy. Luc’s not proud. He _is_ young, but he knows what he wants, and what he wants is Dubi.

('I want you real bad,' he’d whispered against Dubi’s lips during their only kiss. It had been just after the first playoff win in Washington, and they were celebrating. Dubi had been drinking soda all night, but when Luc, five or six beers deep, had poured himself into Dubi’s lap, he’d just wound an arm around Luc’s waist to steady him. 

The kiss had been in a store front during the walk to the hotel. Dubi had decided the cold air would sober Luc up a little, but they ended up tucked away inside the door of a Walgreens, Luc’s arms around Dubi’s neck. 

'We can’t,' Dubi had said, trying to pull away. His hands were on Luc’s neck, thumbs tucked into the hinge of his jaw, just under his ear. 'We— I’m— _Luc_.'

'Please.'

'You’re _nineteen_ ,' Dubi had said, agonised. 'I _can’t_.'

'I’m old enough to know what I want,' Luc had said, and tried leaning in again. 

'No, Luc,' Dubi had said, finally pushing him away and out of the shadow of the store. The walk back to the hotel had been silent.)

-

Here is another thing about Luc.

He’s persistent, and he’s not above bending rules. 

Torts drags Dubi into his office, and after what sounds like a mostly shouted discussion between the two of them and Fligs, it’s decided that Dubi is allowed to take part in practice, but under no circumstances is he allowed to even look at the media until he turns back to his normal age.

Watching him skate is— kind of impressive, really. He looks like a completely different player— he’s not as big, but he’s clearly fast, a strong skater that keeps up with the younger guys way more easily, doesn’t have to rely on being a grinder as much. He’s laughing as he flies down the wing to slot a goal past Korpi, throwing himself into Cam standing at the glass because he knows Cam will try to catch him. 

Torts makes a joke about keeping this Dubi for at least a couple weeks, but Luc watches his shoulders hunch a little at the laughter. It must be hard, he reasons, to get old and then suddenly have a flash of what you used to be able to do. Dubi’s in _really_ good shape for a thirty two year old, but Luc sees the effect a game has on him nowadays. He’s in the ice bath after every game, moving like he’s eighty after a really rough one. No wonder he’s smiling after an hour of flying around on the ice like he’s young again. 

'You looked good out there,' Luc offers, as they’re dressing after a shower. 

It takes Dubi a moment to answer, as he’s tying the laces on his shoes. 'I felt good,' he says, eventually. 

'You want to grab lunch? Mrs Tremblant made me that stew again, there’s like three tons of it in my fridge that I gotta eat.'

Dubi’s eyes light up. Luc lives next to a tiny old couple from Quebec who go to every Blue Jackets game, rain or shine, and Mrs Tremblant is convinced that the team either isn’t feeding him at all or isn’t feeding him enough, and every couple of weeks she’ll turn up with a stack of foil trays containing  tourtière like Luc’s grandmere used to make him. Dubi fucking loves it, after Luc brought some round while he was injured earlier in the season. 

'Fuck yeah,' he says, flipping his hood back up as they leave the dressing room and head for Luc’s car.

-

Dubi sings along to the radio on the drive, like he always does. Luc keeps forgetting that when he’ll glance over (like he always does when they’re in a car together), he’ll see someone who looks like they should be in college. He’s surprised by how— not different Dubi is.

'You haven’t changed,' he says, pulling into his lot.

Dubi frowns. 

'I mean— you still act like adult you,' he clarifies.

Dubi shrugs. 'I am still adult me. Just— with more of a baby face. Fuck, I forgot how young I looked. How can you grow a fuckin’ beard already?'

Luc laughs, and kills the engine. 'Good genetics, I guess. It’s nice being the older one for a change, instead of feeling like a little kid in a room of grown ups.'

Dubi hums. Luc guesses maybe the opposite is true, too.

-

Dubi inhales two helpings of stew and then claims the entirety of Luc’s four seater sofa to watch some house flipping show while Luc throws away the paper plates they ate out of and rinses the cutlery. By the time he makes it to the living room, Dubi is dead to the world, curled on his side like a little kid. 

If Luc had any shame, he’d be ashamed of how attracted to Dubi he is right now. His eyelashes, already normally pretty striking, look even longer and darker in this Dubi’s face, and his lips are pouted slightly in sleep. His hair has fallen into his face, and Luc allows himself a moment of weakness to brush it away. It’s soft. Luc’s touch lingers, and Dubi’s eye cracks open just too fast for Luc to yank his hand away. He freezes, caught.

'Sorry,' he says, even though he’s not, really. 'I was just—'

'Stroking my hair?' Dubi asks, voice thick with sleep even though he can’t have been out for longer than ten minutes, tops.

'—Yeah,' Luc admits. 

'S’nice,' Dubi mumbles, and his eye closes again, his breathing evens back out, and Luc is left with a hand on Dubi’s hair, wondering what just happened. 

-

Dubi wakes up after an hour or so, scrunches his face up like he’s mad about it. It’s painfully endearing. Luc has to look away, pretend to be absorbed by Game of Thrones, even though he’s probably the only human on the planet who doesn’t think it’s the best show in the entire world.

'Am I still a child?' Dubi asks, sitting up and scrubbing at where his hair is standing on end.

'You’re my age, dick,' Luc says.

'That’s a yes, then,' Dubi says, winking at him. Luc sighs.

'So you were just born being a jerk, huh?' he asks, because this is what they do. They snipe at each other all the time, to the point where Fligs threatens to separate them. Luc thought at first it was just how Dubi flirted, but— 

Dubi walks away at the first sign of flirting, nowadays.

'Born? No, this is a lifetime of practice, mini me,' Dubi says.

'I’m bigger than you,’ Luc reminds him, for the hundredth time, 'and right now, I’m older than you, too.'

Dubi snorts. 'Age isn’t everything, Luc.'

_Then why won’t you be with me?_ , Luc doesn’t ask, but he can’t regain his footing on the conversation after that, and eventually, Dubi just calls an Uber.

-

Dubi gets scratched against Pittsburgh, on account of him being twenty and all. He skulks around the locker room the whole pre game, sulking, until Torts kicks him out to lurk literally anywhere that isn’t here.

Luc watches him go, in a suit borrowed from Wenny, since none of adult Dubi’s suits fit him any more.

They’d had another conversation, earlier.

Luc didn’t think Dubi remembered the hair thing, but. Turns out he very much remembers the hair thing.

('You know me looking young doesn’t change anything, right?' He asked, leaning against the counter in Luc’s kitchen.

'It only doesn’t change anything because you don’t want it to,' Luc argued. 'We’re both twenty right now. We could— just until you change back.'

'You know that’s not fair to either of us,' Dubi said, pained.

'Either of us?' Luc asked. 'So you’re admitting you want me too?'

Dubi’s face twisted a little. 'Luc—' he started. 

'Just— don’t lie to me,' Luc said, surprising himself with how clipped his voice is. 'If you think we can't be together, that’s fine, but don’t tell me you don’t want me. Please, Brandon.'

Dubi— said nothing.

'You kissed me back, that night,' Luc said. His voice didn’t wobble, for which he was grateful. 'You didn’t push me away, even though you could have.'

Still nothing from Dubi.

'You want me,' he said, easing a little closer. 'I know you don’t want to let yourself, because I’m so young, or whatever, but. you do want me.'

Dubi swallowed, looking down at his feet.

'Say something,' Luc pleaded. 'Brandon…'

When Dubi said nothing, something in Luc’s chest clenched. 

'Fine,' Luc said. 'Be a coward. Get out of my apartment.')

Watching Dubi leave the locker room gives Luc a twinge of guilt, but he doesn't have time to dwell before they're lining up to walk down the tunnel. 

-

The game is— well, the game is kind of a shit show. They win, but they lose Wenny to an ankle sprain, and Luc gets tossed for trying to murder Jake Guentzel. It was _totally_ justified, he argues to himself, practicing for when Torts tears a strip off him later.

'Baby’s first game misconduct, huh?' Dubi asks him, making him jump a little.

'He had it coming,' Luc grumbles. 'He hit Cam.'

'I saw,' Dubi says, darkly. Luc takes a moment to feel sorry for Guentzel the next time he and Dubi share ice time.

'You’d have done the same thing,' Luc says. 

'Yeah, I would,' Dubi says. 'But I’m not the top line center. They don’t need me like they need you.'

Luc scowls. 'That’s not the point,' he says. 

Dubi shrugs. 'How it is, though.'

'Do you miss it?' Luc asks, suddenly. 'Being a 1C?'

Dubi shrugs again. His face is shuttered, all of a sudden. 'Some of it,' he says, and then the final cannon goes, making them both jump. He glances up the tunnel, and retreats to the door, ready to make his escape when the media arrive. 

Luc sits in his stall and tries his best to look appropriately sorry. 

-

Dubi spends most of his time at the rink in the weight room, where the cameras aren’t allowed to go unless it’s for Behind The Battle. 

Luc has had enough issues watching regular Dubi work out, but when he walks in on this Dubi doing weighted pull ups, no shirt and covered in a sheen of sweat, he has to stop, just for a moment, and gather himself. 

'I miss when both my wrists worked properly,' Dubi says, dropping to the floor, graceful. 'I haven’t done a proper pull up in years.' 

'I’m sorry,' Luc says. 'About what I said— about being a 1C. It was dumb. Of course you miss it.'

Dubi shrugs, wipes the sweat off his chest with a towel. 'People say dumb things. God knows I do. It’s fine.' He cracks his neck, and unbuckles the weight slung around his hips. 

'Do you need to work out?' Luc asks, suddenly curious. 'Like, surely when you go back to normal you won’t take anything with you? You might as well eat nothing but Chipotle and beer.'

Dubi laughs, starts racking up the bench press. 

'It’s nice being able to work out like this again,' he says. 'Don’t get old, kid. Your body betrays you.' 

He lies down on the bench and grips the bar. The muscles in his stomach tense as he gets set, and Luc has to look away, but not before Dubi meets his eyes, and fixes him with a look that Luc can’t figure out. 

-

Now that Luc has been forgiven, Dubi easily falls back into his old ways of trying to wrestle Luc at any given opportunity. 

Luc can’t figure it out. 

'Why are people so hard to figure out?' he asks Andy one night. The young guys all converged on Boone and Murrs’ for an epic Chel tourney. The twenty one and overs brought the booze, Seth brought cookies and brownies, and Sonny brought weed. 

What Luc’s trying to say is that he is both drunk, stoned, and full of sugar, and therefore there’s no room to make sense. 

Andy claps him on the shoulder. 'People suck,' he announces.

Andy has recently adopted a cat, and frequently tells everyone how much better cats are than people. 

Luc can only agree, and takes another swig of his beer. 

'So there’s this— person,' he says. 'They keep acting like they’re into me, but when I make a move, it like, scares them away, I guess.'

Andy hums. Luc maybe should have tried to have this conversation pre weed. 

'Sounds like a lot of effort,' Andy says. 'Are they worth it?'

Both their phones buzz. Cam has sent a picture to the group chat of Dubi and Declan passed out on a colourful mat together. 

_worst babysitter ever_. 

Luc looks at the photo. Declan has a whole hand wrapped around Dubi’s index finger. He can imagine Dubi’s eyelashes fluttering like they do when he falls asleep on the team plane.

Shit. He’s too fucking stoned for this. 

Andy is looking at him with a really weird expression on his face. 

Luc finishes his beer. 'Wanna team up against Jonesy and Z?' he asks, trusting that Andy is too far gone to remember thirty seconds ago.

The grin on his face proves him right, and Luc allows himself one more glance at the picture before putting his phone away. 

-

A win is a win is a win, which means drinking. Which means sticking close to Andy and getting him to buy the beers. Nowhere in Columbus will card him, but Luc worries anyway. 

Dubi comes with, it’s been a couple of days, long enough that his stubble is growing back in and he looks— if not his normal age, then less like he’s a nineteen year old. 

Turns out younger Dubi doesn’t have anywhere near the constitution that regular Dubi does— has two beers and then finds a couple of ladies to hit on. Luc is watching him and pretending not to.

Dubi has a surprising amount of game. His hand is on this girl’s hip, gentle, and he’s leaning in to talk into her ear. Luc knows, because this is how he used to act around him, before— everything. He strikes out, takes it in good humour, and heads back to the booth with a smile. Luc drops his gaze and pretends he hadn’t been watching, but. When he looks back up, Dubi is looking straight at him, knowing. 

Luc looks away, scans the club. There’s a guy at the bar, tall and dark haired, who he makes eye contact with. He winks, and Luc tilts his head, taken aback. He pokes Andy in the side until he looks away from the intense conversation he’s having with Z, and makes the universal sign for 'you want a refill?' Andy raises an eyebrow, but nods, and turns back to Z. It looks like they’re arguing, Zach is all eyebrows and sharply downturned mouth, but Andy is snug up against his side, and Luc would put money on them tangling their ankles together under the table. 

The guy’s name is Liam, and he’s a senior at OSU, and he has absolutely no idea who Luc is. That, or he’s a fantastic actor. He works part time at a campus coffeeshop, and he’s double majoring in American Lit and Education. When he smiles, Luc gets a glint of what he thinks is a tongue piercing. He calls Luc 'Luke', but that’s fine. 

Luc tells him he works downtown (true) for a local business (also true) and that he gets a lot of downtime to work out, when Liam looks him up and down, appraisingly. A quick glance back at the booth tells him that he could probably disappear for the rest of the night and Andy wouldn’t notice. 

'Friends?' Liam asks. He’s leaning right into Luc’s space, bumping their shoulders together as they stick close to the bar. 

'Coworkers,' Luc says. 'They won’t miss me.'

'They should,' Liam says, smile playing on his features. 'I would.'

Luc laughs, and lets Liam buy him a drink, and they fall into easy conversation. Liam is from Idaho, and all of his sports knowledge comes from high school football, which he didn’t play, but he did cover for the school paper.

'Athletes, man,' he says. 'Assholes, every single one.'

Honestly, Luc can’t disagree, but that’s when he realises he has to piss. 

Weaving his way through the crowd takes longer than he thought, and when he gets close to the bar, he sees Liam talking to someone else. 'Replaced me that easily, huh?' he asks, sneaking up behind the other guy, who spins round, and— oh.

'Dubi?' he asks. 

'Your boyfriend was just telling me that you’re spoken for,' Liam says, kind of coldly. 'If that’s what you’re into, whatever, but I’m not interested in sleeping with someone who’s taken.'

'What the fuck?' Luc asks, and glares at Dubi. 'He’s not my boyfriend. He made that _very_ clear.'

'Whatever,' Liam says. 'You guys have your domestic. I’m gonna head out.'

' _Liam_ ,' Luc tries, but he’s already gone. 

'What the fuck is your deal?' he asks Dubi, who’s standing there, unashamed. 

'He was only into you for your dick,' Dubi says. 'You deserve better.'

'That’s not your choice to make,' Luc says, shoving at him. 'I can’t believe you told him I was your boyfriend.'

'I didn’t,' Dubi says. 'I told him it was in his best interest to find someone else to take home. He made his own decisions.'

'So, you won’t sleep with me, but you won’t let anyone else sleep with me, either?' Luc asks, shoving him again. 

'I won’t let you sleep with people who could go running to the goddamn media!' Dubi says. 'Jesus, Luc, you have to be smarter about hooking up, if that’s what you’re going to do.'

'Thanks for the advice,' Luc says, and spins around to go. 'Tell Andy I got an Uber home.'

He’s surprised when Dubi lets him go, but he takes it.

-

'Luc,' Dubi says, from behind him. 

Luc may have lied about the Uber. He lives like three blocks away, it seems like a waste of his money and the Uber’s time to drive it. Plus, he likes having the cold air to sober him up a little before he gets home. 

'Don’t worry,' Luc says. 'No one’s hitting on me out here, you don’t have to protect me.'

'Luc,' Dubi says, and grabs his hand. 

'What?' Luc asks, trying to pull it free, and that’s when Dubi kisses him.

Luc isn’t too proud to admit that he just kind of— lets it happen. Dubi has one hand around his wrist and another on his jaw, careful, and Luc kisses him back, because _fuck_ , it’s _Dubi_.

-

Luc wishes he could say he pulled away, that he insisted that they talk about this, because talk about hot and fucking cold.

He wishes he could say that he didn’t kiss Dubi in Goodale Park until his fingers tingle with the cold, before pulling away and asking him to come home with him.

He wishes Dubi hadn’t kissed him again and said yes, because now he has Dubi in his entryway, shirt hanging open, and he doesn’t think he can come back from this.

Dubi is flushed from cheekbones to nipples, leaner than the Dubi Luc is familiar with, and his hip bones are so sharp Luc can’t resist dropping to his knees to bite at one of them. Dubi inhales, quiet, and Luc can feel the muscles in his stomach tense.

‘Luc,’ he says, voice a little hoarse. 

‘Don’t say no,’ Luc says, not even looking up at him. ‘Please— not now. Not after we got so close.’

‘I’m not saying no,’ Dubi says, immediately. ‘Just— this body is only twenty. So if we want to— take it somewhere else, we should do that soon, because I’m kind of on a fucking hair trigger right now.’

Luc laughs, shocked. Now that he concentrates, he can feel Dubi’s erection bumping against his shoulder. He leans down a little and rubs his cheek against the front of Dubi’s pants, eliciting a strangled sound. ‘ _Luc_.’

‘Maybe I want to blow you right here,’ Luc says, dangerously, and Dubi makes another sound, before dropping to his knees too.

‘If this— if this is the only time we get to do this,’ Dubi says, soft. ‘I don’t want it to be a quick blowjob in a cold hallway that doesn’t even have carpet.’

His hair is falling in his face again. His lips are shiny and pink from kissing, and his eyes are wide, earnest. Luc would give him the world if he asked for it right now.

They end up on his couch, because it’s fucking huge, and because Luc honestly can’t keep his hands off Dubi long enough to get to his room.

‘So where’s your tattoo?’ Luc asks, after divesting Dubi of his shirt and starting work on his pants.

‘I’ll give you a prize when you find it,’ Dubi says, throwing his head back as Luc nips at the skin of his stomach and making a breathy sound.

Dubi’s erection is pushing at the thin, grey fabric of his underwear, when Luc finally figures out his stupidly complicated belt button, and he leans in again, mouthing wetly at it. Dubi makes that sound again, the one that settles heavily in Luc’s stomach, makes him shiver.

‘Why are you still wearing clothes?’ Dubi asks, when Luc tugs at the waistband of his underwear with his teeth.

Luc— doesn’t really have an answer for that. He strips out of his shirt quickly and crawls back over Dubi, draping himself over hot, bare skin.

‘You were so skinny as a kid,’ Luc says, kissing the corner of his mouth, rolling his hips a little.

‘We can’t all be built like you,’ Dubi says, biting Luc’s lip. ‘What the fuck do they feed you in Quebec?’

Luc laughs, bites him back, and sneaks a hand into his underwear to palm at Dubi’s dick. It’s hot and soft, damp at the tip where he’s cut. It feels both exactly like and not at all like Luc’s own dick, and Luc is suddenly attacked with insecurity.

‘You’ve done this before, right?’ Luc asks, ‘because— I kind of— haven’t.’

‘With a guy, or in general?’ Dubi asks, deadpan.

Luc stays silent, cheeks hot with embarrassment. 

‘I hadn’t either, by twenty,’ Dubi says, reassuring, and then goes quiet. ‘It— still hasn’t happened, at thirty two. With a guy, anyway.’

‘Oh,’ Luc says. ‘I— really?’

Dubi shrugs. ‘I’m not a fan of no strings attached sex, and there isn’t many opportunities to make a connection when you’re a closeted athlete. I do okay with my own hand.’

Luc is quiet, processing that. ‘Don’t you get lonely?’ he asks, sitting up a little. His hand is on Dubi’s stomach, resting gently. 

Another shrug. 

Luc hums, before leaning in to kiss him, decisive. ‘We can figure it out together,’ he says, and gets a smile from Dubi. 

‘I don’t think it’s that hard,’ Dubi admits. 

Luc smirks, and wiggles his hips where he’s sitting basically on Dubi’s dick, to prove him wrong. Dubi squirms and swats at his bare stomach, slapping the skin there lightly. 

‘Brat,’ he grumbles, and Luc laughs, and kisses him again, and they get lost in that for a while, until Dubi is gasping and arching his back and trying to lift his hips into Luc to rub off on him.

‘How do you want to do this?’ Luc asks, when he’s finished sucking a bruise into the hollow of Dubi’s throat, low enough to be covered when he’s wearing a tie, but livid purple.

‘I’m easy,’ Dubi says, where he’s still trapped underneath Luc. Luc is starting to get used to feeling him wriggling beneath his bulk. He lets himself think about weighing Dubi down, about moving against him and— fucking into him, making him make those breathy, punched out sounds that he hears in the good porn that he occasionally watches.

(He also thinks a little about making Dubi moan, shameless and loud, like the bad porn he watches way more often, but he doesn’t want to traumatise Mrs Tremblant.)

Luc takes a breath, and takes his chance. Worst case, Dubi laughs at him. Best case— well.

‘Can I fuck you?’ he asks, and Dubi’s eyes go wide and a little unfocused. Luc feels his hips jump, he thinks in a good way.

‘Yeah, Luc,’ Dubi says, almost whispers. ‘Yeah, you can fuck me.’

And that’s how Luc ends up standing over Dubi, bent over the back of the couch, underwear pushed down around his knees which he shows Luc how to open him up.

It’s not as romantic as Luc thought it might be, but watching Dubi finger himself, jerking his hips in minute movements as Luc runs a hand over the muscles in his ass and thighs, dragging a finger through a shiny patch of lube that’s escaped? It’s basically the hottest thing Luc has ever seen. 

It’s kind of harsh, and dirty, and Dubi grunts when Luc can’t help himself and slides a finger in alongside the two that Dubi is currently using to open himself up.

‘Now,’ he says, through gritted teeth, and pulls his fingers out, wiping them on his own belly before gripping the back of the couch and tilting his ass even further in the air. Luc is taller than him by enough that it makes a difference, and when he grips the base of his own dick in one hand and Dubi’s hip in the other to slide in, Dubi almost goes up on his tiptoes, whining. 

‘Does it hurt?’ Luc asks, freezing in place, just an inch or so deep. 

‘Good hurt,’ Dubi says, putting his forehead solidly on the fabric of the throw rug Luc’s mom bought him. He sounds strained, but when Luc eases in another inch or so, he moans, gratifying, and pushes back, like he wants more.

‘You sure?’ Luc asks, holding his hip to keep him in place. 

‘Please fuck me,’ Dubi says, ‘please, Luc.’

Luc pauses for another second, long enough that Dubi whines, pushes back harder. Luc lets go of his dick and slaps Dubi on the thigh, mostly playful, but it makes Dubi still, which is what he wanted. 

‘Should have known you’d be impatient,’ Luc says, and resumes his slow slide into Dubi. ‘You can barely handle waiting for the coffee machine at the rink.’

‘Don’t talk about work when you have your cock in me,’ Dubi says, and Luc is suddenly, bizarrely struck by the filth of it. Dubi says it casually, easily, but Luc looks down at the fraction of space between their bodies and sees his dick disappearing into the slick rim of Dubi’s ass.

Luc pushes again, less slow, less careful, and then, just like that, he’s flush against Dubi, fitting around the curve of his ass like he’s meant to be there. Dubi’s breathing hard, slim shoulders heaving, head hanging down. His spine is arched, the knobs sticking out through thin, pale skin.

‘ _Move_ ,’ Dubi says, and Luc does.

He loses himself in it. In the slapping of flesh on flesh, in the sounds Dubi makes, in the feeling of him clenched tight around him. His whole world shrinks to the movement of his hips.

His orgasm surprises both of them, and he digs blunt fingernails into Dubi’s hips as he comes so hard he has to lock his knees or collapse.

‘Fuck,’ he says, breathless, and leans in, rests his forehead against the nape of Dubi’s neck. ‘Fuck,' he says again, when he realises Dubi hasn’t come, and he fumbles between his legs. The angle is basically the same as doing it to himself, and though he’s not as coordinated as he would be pre-orgasm, when Dubi comes with a shudder, he feels something warm and pleased blooming in his chest. 

'Now,' Dubi says, muffled where his cheek is pressed into the fabric. 'I’m not an expert, but that felt pretty fucking good on my side.'

Luc laughs. 'Yeah, it was— it was,' he finishes, lame. He can feel himself softening where he’s still buried in Dubi— Brandon, he figures he should probably use someone’s real name at least while he’s actively inside them— and it doesn’t _hurt_ , but it’s definitely uncomfortable, especially as the lube starts to get tacky on his skin. 'I’m gonna—' he says, and pulls out. 

Brandon makes a sound, and the half of his face that Luc can see grimaces. Luc acts on instinct, and kisses his temple in apology. 'Sorry,' he murmurs, wrapping his arms around Brandon in a more than slightly awkward embrace, still leaning over the back of the couch as they are.

'Jesus,' Brandon says, finally, pushing himself to a standing position. 'I’m fucking _drunk_.'

Luc— is also drunk, honestly. He’d kind of forgotten, in the heady feeling of having Brandon so close, eventually, that when he straightens up, his head spins a little. 'Coffee,' he decides. 

'At two am?' Brandon asks. 'Thank god you’re pretty, kid. Water, not coffee. OJ if you have it.'

'—Water,' Luc says, after a pause. 'The only things in my fridge are light mayo and beer.'

'God save me from idiot teenagers,' Brandon says, to the ceiling, but he pads into the kitchen, naked and unashamed, and comes back with two tumblers filled to the brim. 

'Will you stay?' Luc asks, after a moment. Brandon is standing next to the couch, hair mussed, cheeks red and marked from the couch, looking younger than Luc has ever seen him. He knows that Brandon doesn’t want to do this, but— he isn’t sure he can let him leave yet. They already broke Brandon’s Rule Number One, what’s a few more hours?

'I shouldn't,' he says, sliding onto the couch next to Luc. 

'But?' Luc asks, accepting a water glass.

Brandon takes his free hand and tilts Luc’s chin up, tender, leaning in for the gentlest kiss Luc has ever been part of. 

He guesses that’s Brandon’s answer. 

-

Brandon sleeps like the dead. 

Luc knows this because he wakes up at dawn needing to piss like a racehorse and Brandon doesn’t even stir when Luc wriggles free of his grip. 

He doesn’t realise until he’s on his way back into bed that Brandon’s beard has grown back, and his hair is short again. There’s a scar on the delicate join of his wrist that Luc can’t help but trace. 

'You’re back,' he murmurs, and Brandon sleeps on. It takes Luc a second, but he finally manages to slide back under the sheets, and Brandon just exhales slowly and folds back around him like an octopus. Luc drifts back off to sleep easily. 

-

Luc wakes up alone. 

Brandon’s gone from his bed, and when he investigates further, from his whole fucking apartment. When Luc calls him, he doesn’t pick up. 

'You fucking asshole,' he spits into the voicemail, and then pulls jeans and a hoodie on to climb into his car and drive to Brandon’s apartment. 

-

Brandon opens the door, to his credit. 

'Luc—' he starts, but Luc is _not_ here for his apologies. 

'What the fuck is wrong with you?' he asks, barging into Brandon’s apartment and pacing into the living room. 

Brandon may look like his old self, but he’s kept the marks of last night littered on the parts of skin Luc can see. 

'I told you,' he says, unconvincingly. 'I’m too old for you, Luc. You deserve— someone younger. Better.'

'Fucking bullshit,' Luc says. He can hear his accent getting thicker, like it does when he gets emotional. 'I was good enough last night, you waking up the next morning and getting cold feet has nothing to do with my age. Your brain wasn’t twenty last night, your heart wasn’t. You don’t get to blow hot and cold just because you’re a fucking commitment phobe. You’re better than that and I deserve better than you _running away while I was asleep_.'

Luc stops. His chest is heaving a little. He didn’t know he had quite _that_ much to say, but once he started, he couldn’t seem to stop. 

'I like you,' he says. 'I like you so much, Brandon. But I’m not going to let you do this. I know you want me at least as much as I want you, but if you’re going to run away, then fine. Run. Because I’m done.'

Brandon hasn’t said a word. Luc hasn’t even taken his shoes off. He spins around and storms out, only not slamming the door because he knows Brandon’s neighbour has a baby, and if the yelling didn’t wake her up, then the door certainly will.

-

He sits in his car in Brandon’s parking lot, waiting for his hands to stop shaking. 

He’s not waiting for his phone to ring, which is good, because it doesn’t. Eventually he’s calm enough to drive home without causing a pileup in the Arena district.

The water glasses from the night before have left condensation rings on his coffee table. He shoves them out of the way and flops onto the couch, putting his feet up. He’s not hungover, didn’t have that much to drink, but his head is pounding, and his stomach hurts like it does before big games. 

He ends up spending the rest of the day on the couch, calls his mom, promises her he’s eating plenty, feels a little guilty when he orders takeout.

The sun is just starting to set when there’s a knock on his door. 

Brandon, wide eyed and twenty years old, in clothes that don’t fit him, is standing in the hallway like a lost baby deer.

'No,' Luc says, firmly, and Brandon starts. 'If you only came here because you’re my age again and that’s the only time you can be with me, I— I don’t want it.'

'I think you’re the reason this happened,' Brandon says, after a pause. 'After— after you left, I did some thinking. I— fell asleep while I was thinking, and then woke up like this again. I think— Well, I think I’m even younger, this time. And I realised that this— waking up as my younger self was just me giving myself a reason to want you.'

Luc— wasn’t expecting any of that. He steps back into his apartment to let Brandon in.

'So, you’re here because…' Luc starts, and tails off. 'Because you’re sorry?'

'Also because I want you whether I’m fifteen, twenty five or thirty five,' Brandon says. 'If my age really doesn’t bother you, then— I’m all in, Luc.'

'You mean that?' Luc asks. He _hates_ how small his voice is, how unsure he sounds. 

'If I have to spend the next three months convincing you, I will,' Brandon says. 'But really, I’d rather just kiss you.'

-

Luc wakes up to the sound of singing. Really, really terrible singing. 

Brandon is in his kitchen, wearing sweatpants low on his hips. He has a beard, and he’s kind of soft around the waist. Luc smiles from the doorway, before padding into the kitchen to kiss him good morning. 

(Brandon’s tattoo, Luc finds out, is a smiley face on the sole of his foot, right on the ball.

‘You’re embarrassing,’ he says, thumbing at it until Brandon squirms and pulls it away.

‘I was nineteen!’ Brandon protests. ‘We all do stupid things at nineteen.’

Luc hums, pointedly, and looks Brandon up and down. He doesn’t think the joke is lost on him, by the way their movie date devolves into wrestling.)


End file.
